The Meeting

I violently shoved a thick woolen sweater into my suitcase, cursing the zipper when it refused to budge. Three hours until my flight. Ninety minutes until I had to be in a cab. And I was currently fighting a losing battle with polyester blends.

"You're doing it wrong."

I looked up to see Ivy leaning against my bedroom doorframe, holding a glass of green juice that probably cost more than my hourly rate. Ivy Caldwell was my roommate, my best friend, and the only reason I wasn't currently living in a cardboard box. She came from old money, the kind that vacationed in the Hamptons and had buildings named after them but she rebelled by living with me and working as a graphic designer.

"I'm packing," I grunted, sitting on the suitcase to force it shut. "Or trying to."

Ivy walked over, set her juice on my nightstand, and nudged me off the luggage. "You're packing for a funeral. Grey, black, navy blue. Maya, you're going to Seattle, not a wake."

"I'm an auditor, Ivy. We're the funeral directors of the corporate world. We show up, look sad, and bury the bodies."

Ivy rolled her eyes, her blonde bob swaying. "You're going to Cohen Enterprises. Do you know who works there?"

"Accountants?"

"Wolves," she said, opening her own closet doors which she had annexed because mine were 'tragically small.' She pulled out a sleek, emerald-green silk blouse and a pair of tailored black trousers that looked like they could cut glass. "The Cohen brothers are predators. Eat or be eaten. If you walk in there looking like a librarian, they'll chew you up."

"I like libraries," I muttered, but I didn't protest when she swapped my grey cardigan for the silk blouse.

"Take the trench coat, too. The Burberry one. It rains in Seattle. A lot." Ivy started repacking my bag with military efficiency. "Have you ever met them? The Cohens?"

"No. And I don't plan to. I report to the CFO, do the numbers, and fly back before my plants die."

Ivy paused, holding a pair of heels. Her expression turned strangely serious. "I met Asher Cohen once. At a gala my dad forced me to attend." She shivered, a rare crack in her composed veneer. "He was... intense. He looked at me like he was trying to figure out what I tasted like."

My scar gave a phantom throb. "Rich men are all the same, Ivy. Just better suits."

"Maybe," she said, dropping the shoes in. "Just be careful, okay? Call me when you land."

Seattle greeted me with a sky the color of a bruised plum and a drizzle that wasn't quite rain but managed to soak everything instantly.

By the time I checked into the hotel, I was exhausted. The flight had been turbulent, and my shoulder had been burning the entire way, a dull, low-grade ache that made it impossible to sleep.

I realized with a jolt of frustration that I had left my phone charger plugged into the wall at the apartment.

"Perfect," I muttered to the empty hotel room. "Just perfect."

I collapsed onto the bed, burying my face in the pillow. I barely had the energy to kick off my shoes before darkness took me.

My hotel was located in downtown Seattle, a short walk from the glass monolith that was Cohen Enterprises. The next morning, I left forty-five minutes early, driven by a caffeine withdrawal headache and a need to get my bearings.

The city was waking up. Steam rose from manhole covers, and the air smelled of roasting beans and salt water. It was fresher here than in the city, wilder.

I wandered two blocks before I found it; a small, unassuming coffee shop tucked between a high-end boutique and a parking garage. The Daily Grind.

I stepped inside, bells chiming. It was warm, smelling of cinnamon and old wood.

"Help you, miss?" The barista was an older man with a grey beard and kind eyes.

"Coffee. Black. And..." I eyed the display case. "That blueberry scone."

"Coming right up. You look like you need it." He winked. "I'm Sal."

"Maya. And yes, I definitely do."

I took the coffee and the scone to a small table by the window. It was the best scone I’d ever tasted—buttery and dense. I ate while watching the street, trying to calm the jittery feeling in my stomach.

A sleek black car pulled up to the curb outside. A Maybach, dark-tinted and aggressive. It idled there, the engine purring with a low rumble that vibrated through the glass of the coffee shop window.

My heart skipped a beat.

I found myself staring at the tinted rear window. I couldn't see inside, but I felt... pulled. A magnetic tug in the center of my chest. The fine hairs on my arms stood up, and the scar on my shoulder flared with sudden, prickly heat.

He's there.

The thought whispered through my mind, unbidden and irrational.

I shook my head, taking a scalding sip of coffee. "Get a grip, Brooks. It's a car."

The rear door of the Maybach didn't open. Instead, a man in the front passenger seat, broad, wearing a dark suit hopped out and ran into the office building next door. A few seconds later, the car pulled away, merging seamlessly into the grey morning traffic.

The pressure in my chest vanished instantly.

I glanced at my watch. I had twenty minutes to get to the wolves' den.

Cohen Enterprises occupied the top ten floors of a steel-and-glass needle that pierced the clouds. The lobby was all black marble and sharp angles, cold and imposing.

It took fifteen minutes just to get through security. They scanned my ID, my bag, and printed a badge that designated me as Temporary Contractor - Audit.

"Fifteenth floor," the guard grunted. "Mrs. Vance is expecting you."

Mrs. Isla Vance, the CFO, was waiting for me. She was a striking woman with sharp features and hair pulled back so tight it looked painful.

"We have prepared a workspace for you in the archives, Ms. Brooks," Mrs. Vance said, her voice crisp. "Mr. Julian Frost assured us you could handle a forensic audit of the legacy accounts within two weeks."

"I can," I said, trying to project confidence. "I just need access to the raw data from the last fiscal year."

"You have read-only access. Any discrepancies must be reported directly to me." She narrowed her eyes. "And only me. Do not bother the partners with trivialities. Mr. Levi Cohen values his privacy above all else."

"Understood."

My 'office' was a glass-walled box near the server rooms. It was quiet, isolated, and freezing.

I spent the entire day drowning in numbers. And the numbers were... odd.

There were patterns here I didn't like. Massive transfers to shell companies with vague names like Lycan Holdings and Moon-Phase LLC. Large withdrawals of cash categorized as 'Security Consultation' that happened every month on the exact same dates.

I worked through lunch. I worked through the afternoon slump. By the time I looked up, the office beyond my glass walls was dark.

It was 8:30 PM.

"Great," I sighed, rubbing my eyes. My shoulder was throbbing again, a rhythmic ache that synced with my pulse.

I packed up my laptop, grabbed my trench coat, and headed for the elevators. The building was silent, eerie in a way that modern buildings usually weren't. It felt like the air itself was holding its breath.

I exited the lobby and stepped out into a deluge.

The drizzle from the morning had turned into a torrential downpour. Rain lashed against the pavement, bouncing off the asphalt. I popped my umbrella, but the wind immediately turned it inside out, snapping one of the metal ribs.

"Of course," I groaned, tossing the broken umbrella into a nearby trash can.

I pulled my coat tighter and started walking. My hotel was only four blocks away. I could make it.

I waited at the crosswalk, the rain plastering my hair to my face. The street was relatively empty, the headlights of passing cars reflecting on the slick black road.

The light changed. I stepped off the curb.

My leather sole slipped on a metal drainage grate.

It happened in slow motion. My ankle twisted, and I went down hard, my palms scraping against the wet asphalt. I landed right in the middle of the lane.

A horn blasted.

I looked up. Twin headlights were barreling toward me, blindingly bright. The car was hydroplaning, skimming over the water, the brakes screeching uselessly.

I couldn't move. My ankle screamed in protest. I threw my hands up, bracing for an impact that would surely break me.

Then, a blur of motion.

Something hit me from the side. Not metal, but solid, hard muscle.

I was lifted, yanked from the asphalt with terrifying speed. The wind was knocked out of me as I slammed into a hard chest.

Screech. Thud.

The car spun past the spot where I had been sitting a millisecond ago, slamming its bumper into a lamppost with a sickening crunch.

I was on the sidewalk, twenty feet away. I was gasping for air, clinging to a rain-soaked lapel.

"You have a death wish, little rabbit?"

The voice was low. Vibrating. It went straight to my marrow.

I looked up.

Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the man holding me. He was huge, looming over me, shielding me from the rain with his body. He wore a tuxedo, drenched now, the white shirt clinging to his skin.

But it was the face that stopped my heart.

It was the man from the photo. Levi Cohen.

But the photo hadn't done him justice. He was devastating. High cheekbones, a jaw that looked carved from granite, and wet, dark hair falling over his forehead.

And his eyes.

They were glowing. In the shadow of the storm, his irises were a swirling, electric amber.

The smell hit me then. The same scent from the alleyway six months ago. The same heat radiating from his body, soaking into my freezing clothes.

My scar burned so hot I almost cried out.

He stared down at me, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply. His grip on my waist tightened, almost possessively.

"Are you okay?" he asked, but he wasn't looking at my face. He was looking at the pulse frantically beating in my throat.

"I..." My voice failed me. "You... you moved so fast."

"Adrenaline," he dismissed, his voice rough. He leaned closer, his face inches from mine. "You're bleeding."

I looked down. My palms were scraped raw from the fall.

"It's just a scratch," I whispered.

"No," he growled softly, his eyes darkening, the amber swirling into gold. "Not your hands."

He reached out, his thumb brushing the collar of my coat, right over the spot where my scar lay hidden beneath layers of silk and wool.

"You smell like..." He stopped, his jaw clenching tight enough to snap a tooth. He looked at me, really looked at me, with a mixture of confusion and dawning recognition.

"Like what?" I breathed.

He pulled back abruptly, as if burned. The intensity in his eyes dialled back, masked by a sudden, cold professionalism.

"Like trouble," he said, standing up and offering me a hand. His hand was large, warm, and calloused.

I took it, and he pulled me to my feet effortlessly, keeping me steady when my twisted ankle wobbled.

A black SUV, the same Maybach from this morning pulled up to the curb. The driver, the broad man I’d seen earlier, jumped out with an umbrella.

"Sir?" the driver asked, eyeing me warily.

"Take Miss..." Levi paused, raising an eyebrow.

"Brooks," I managed. "Maya Brooks."

"Take Miss Brooks to her hotel, Eric," Levi commanded. He opened the rear door for me. "And get the first aid kit."

"I can walk," I lied.

Levi looked at my ankle, then back at my eyes. He smirked, a dangerous, wolfish expression that made my knees weak.

"Get in the car, Maya. Before I carry you."